The Red House

It was late.

The kind of late where everything softens. Where even the city seems to lower its voice, as if respecting the sanctity of the hour. The distant hum of traffic faded into a murmur, and the streetlights cast only the faintest glow through the half-drawn curtains, painting delicate shadows across the room. They were in bed, tangled, not in some perfect cinematic way, but messily, like two people who had stopped noticing the edges between each other. Their limbs were a quiet conspiracy of closeness, a map of trust drawn in the dark.

Her head rested on his chest, her hair spilling across his skin like ink on a canvas. One arm draped across his stomach, her fingers curling lightly against his side, as if anchoring herself to him. His hand lay gently on the back of her neck, thumb tracing the fine baby hairs near her hairline, a gesture so instinctive it felt like breathing. Neither of them had spoken in a while, and the silence was not empty but full, laden with the weight of everything they didn’t need to say.

He could feel her breathing against him. Slow, deliberate, but not quite asleep. Each exhale was a soft tide, rising and falling, tethering him to the moment. The room carried the faint scent of her lavender shampoo, mingling with the worn cotton of the sheets, a fragrance that had woven itself into his definition of home.

“You’re really quiet tonight,” she whispered, her voice barely stirring the air, as if she were reluctant to disturb the stillness.

“I know,” he said, his words low, almost swallowed by the dark. “I don’t want to think anymore.”

She shifted just slightly, pressing herself closer, her warmth seeping into him like sunlight through a window. “Then don’t.”

He exhaled, and the breath caught in his throat for a second, a fleeting snag of emotion he couldn’t name. It wasn’t sadness, not quite, but something heavier, a longing to remain suspended in this moment, where the world couldn’t touch them.

“Can I just… rest here?” he asked, his voice soft, almost pleading. “Not say anything? Just breathe you in?”

Her reply was simple, a single word that carried the weight of a vow. “Always.”

They lay there a little longer, the silence wrapping around them like a second skin. The clock on the nightstand ticked faintly, but time felt irrelevant, as if it had agreed to pause just for them. His fingers moved absently through her hair, tracing the curve of her scalp, and she let out a small sigh, a sound so delicate it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But he heard it, felt it, like a note struck deep within him.

Then, quietly, like it slipped out of him without permission, he spoke again. “Your address is just by the left side of my lung.”

She didn’t move, didn’t lift her head, but he felt her breath pause, just for a moment, as if she were holding his words inside her.

“You’re the resident of the red house,” he continued, his voice steady but soft, like a confession. “That keeps me alive.”

His voice cracked just a little on the last word, not from sadness, but from the weight of saying something he’d been carrying too long. It was as if the words had been etched into him, carved into the quiet spaces of his chest, waiting for this moment to be spoken.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, and the silence stretched, not heavy but reverent, like the pause before a prayer. Then she pressed her face into his chest, her lips brushing his skin, and held him tighter, her arm a steady anchor across his body.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, her voice muffled but resolute. “This house… It’s permanent.”

He didn’t reply, didn’t need to. He just closed his eyes, his arms tightening around her, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. Her breath, warm and steady, was a rhythm he could live by. The dark held all their words, cradling them gently, like secrets shared between old friends.

Outside, the city continued its quiet hum, but in here, the world was smaller, softer. It was the curve of her shoulder under his palm, the faint freckles he could trace even with his eyes closed. It was the memory of her laughter, sharp and bright, from earlier that day when she’d teased him about his terrible coffee-making skills, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made his heart ache. It was the weight of her hand, small but sure, resting against his chest, as if she could feel the pulse of his thoughts.

He thought of the years before her, how empty they seemed now, like a house with no windows. He hadn’t known then what he was missing, but now, with her here, he couldn’t imagine a life without this quiet gravity. She was the centre of his orbit, the reason his heart kept time.

She shifted again, tilting her head to look up at him, her eyes catching the faint light. They were wide, unguarded, and he felt his chest tighten at the sight of them. “You’re doing it again,” she said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Doing what?”

“Thinking too much.”

He laughed, a low, rough sound that felt like a release. “You’re probably right.”

“I’m always right,” she said, her smile growing, but there was no edge to it, just warmth. She reached up, her fingers brushing his jaw, and he turned his head to kiss her palm, a gesture so natural it felt like it had always been part of him.

“Tell me something else,” she murmured, settling back against him. “Something you’ve never said.”

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb resuming its gentle path along her neck. Then, slowly, he spoke. “Sometimes I dream about you, and when I wake up, I’m afraid you won’t be here. Not because you’d leave, but because I don’t know if I deserve this.”

Her breath hitched, and she propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. Her hair fell around her face, framing her in the dim light, and her expression was fierce, tender. “You don’t get to decide what you deserve,” she said, her voice steady. “I’m here because I choose to be. Because you’re my home, too.”

The words landed like a stone in still water, rippling through him. He reached for her, pulling her down into a kiss that was slow, deliberate, a silent conversation of its own. Her lips were soft, warm, and he tasted the faintest hint of salt, as if her words had carried a piece of her heart. When they parted, she nestled back against his chest, her hand resting over his heart again.

“Promise me you’ll always be this honest,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Always,” he echoed, his voice thick with the truth of it.

They lay there, wrapped in each other, the world outside forgotten. The city’s hum was a distant lullaby, and the shadows on the wall seemed to sway gently, as if keeping time with their breathing. He thought of the life they’d built together, the small rituals, like her stealing his sweaters, or the way they’d argue over who got the last bite of dessert, only to share it in the end. He thought of the future, not with fear, but with a quiet certainty that she would be there, her hand in his, her laughter filling the spaces he hadn’t known were empty.

Sometimes love doesn’t shout. It whispers, it lingers, it lives just left of the lung.